


Upgrade U

by glitterpile



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drama & Romance, M/M, Masturbation, Translation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Viktor's overly poetic thought processes, strip dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15904179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterpile/pseuds/glitterpile
Summary: Viktor suffers, Yuuri is oblivious.Translated from Russian.





	Upgrade U

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Upgrade U](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9921590) by [Fran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fran/pseuds/Fran). 



> If you are as unacquainted with Beyonce's discography as I am, I've inserted a link to the relevant music at the right point.
> 
> The original was Teen rating, apologies to the author but I think this is more appropriate. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> Many many thanks to [crystalki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalki/pseuds/crystalki) for the beta!

Viktor threw his coat over the headboard and flopped across the bed, splaying himself out like a starfish. He toed off his shoes and let them drop to the floor, muttering relieved curses. 

“Do you have a headache?” Yuuri asked from the bathroom in sympathy.

“No, it’s heartache,” he admitted with a clear conscience.

Yuuri turned off the light in the bathroom and walked past, flicking on the lamp on the bedside table. A bottle of mineral water dropped onto the bed. 

Viktor dragged the bottle closer, turned onto his stomach and shielded his eyes with his hand. Yuuri adjusted the lamp until it faced the window. He curled up comfortably on the very edge of the bed like a cat and was checking his phone. He hadn’t undressed, just shed his jacket and loosened his tie. Viktor held the cool bottle against his flushed cheeks, engraving into his memory the stunning vision in front of him, as sculpted with his own two hands — from the hairstyle, still in place and gorgeous, down to his socks, bought together with his navy suit, pale blue dress shirt and dark-cherry tie. 

“Coach Celestino is dancing with Minako-sensei. I think it's a tango, he has a rose in his teeth.” 

Yuuri was smiling, devastatingly handsome even in his student-style glasses. Everything was beautiful about this man, his smile, his clothes, his soul… and his thoughts, no matter what they were about. 

Viktor unscrewed the lid and latched onto the bottleneck. He tossed the emptied bottle into the corner with their luggage.

Yuuri looked at him from behind his phone.

“You're not feeling well?”

Viktor blew his fringe off his forehead and paused to think.

“I'm sad and at ease. My sorrow is bright. My sorrow overflows with you.”

“Speak English, please.”

Viktor rested his cheek on his crossed arms.

“I drank a couple of flutes of champagne and, thanks to you, went to bed at ten in the evening. Clearly, I've never been better.”

“Four.”

He raised his head.

“Four flutes,” Yuuri clarified, his accent breaking through. “Not counting the vodka you drank with Coach Celestino and Coach Yakov.”

“Say ‘Sheremetyevo’.”

“Shirematyevo.”

Viktor's snort of amusement didn't get a response from Yuuri. His face couldn't be any more serious, eyes completely dark and revealing nothing. Viktor felt like he could drown in them. 

“Seems to me that someone isn't planning to sleep at all,” Viktor cast a lure.

“I'm not,” Yuuri agreed noncommittally.

“Fame is a tiring burden, it's true…” Viktor patted him on the hip, allowing his hand to linger. “You could have said so straight away,” he lowered his voice teasingly, “we would have left right after the official part. What shall we do now?”

“We left for your sake. Sleep is the best medicine.”

Viktor silently removed his hand.

“For what?”

“For everything. You've been depressed all evening.”

“I'm not depressed, this is my neutral face,” Viktor tried to defend himself.

“You need to shower. And sleep.”

“Will you give me a back rub?” queried Viktor in the same tone that children use when begging for a bedtime story. Yuuri's eyes widened. Viktor never could predict which of his teases would be ignored, and which Yuuri would take at face value.

“Sure.”

Why, you're so daring, Viktor smirked to himself, switching to a seductive smile. 

“Did you have a fight with Coach Yakov?”

Viktor shrank back a little. “What makes you say that?”

“I heard your raised voices. Back there… in the bathroom.”

“You were eavesdropping?”

He held his breath, watching as Yuuri started to lightly flush. His cheekbones immediately stood out; Viktor made a mental note to add blush to Yuuri’s performance makeup next time. 

Yuuri’s face reached Viktor’s favourite shade of pink and hid behind his phone. Their communication was at an impasse, with only one upside — this time they were in their hotel room, and not searching for nuts through the entire Barcelona shopping strip. 

  


How wonderfully had that sightseeing day ended, as magical as any Christmas fairytale. Yuuri’s intentions had clearly been pure, as always; he had watched Viktor's excesses, awestruck, and later floated out of the changing room all reddened and stunning like a model in ‘Men's Health’. Viktor had closed his magazine and picked his jaw up off the floor in order to give a bright approving smile. While he had gulped his cooled coffee, a mollified Yuuri turned in front of the mirror, bending and twisting to look at himself from every side. The Catalonian salesman had been giving chef’s kisses and delightedly closing his eyes in the typical mannerisms of a practiced conniver and cheat, but truthfully the suit was worth every dollar. The pants were a little long, but the fit was superb, the jacket clung to his back, the open collar of the dress shirt elongated his neck, giving the enticing illusion of delicacy. Viktor had placed the saucer with its rattling cup onto the armrest and risen from his seat to help with the tie. 

Everything was progressing wonderfully, the suit was being speedily adjusted for length, Yuuri had stopped with his arms full of their shopping in front of the sock and kerchief display, turning away his eyes that were sparkling like a newlywed’s. Viktor had struck while the iron was hot, paying for the gold-plated tie clip and starting to examine the tortoiseshell Ray-Bans, when they discovered that the bag of nuts bought at the confectioner’s stall was missing. 

Yuuri's face had fallen, in the blink of an eye he'd turned the whole boutique upside down and rushed out onto the street, risking leaving his new purchases behind. Viktor barely managed to keep up with him, like a guide dog following its suddenly-seeing owner, and kept needling him. It was a bad habit of his from childhood, to simply sneer at Yakov’s words if he had no answer to his criticisms. Here he had nobody to blame but himself, the thrice-damned nuts were the last straw, he just wanted to go back to the warm hotel room and for all his desires to finally come true, even starting right there - to push this penny-pinching idiot towards a festive shopfront, pull off his glasses, hold his cold-reddened cheeks and kiss him forevermore, until death do them part. 

  


Viktor suddenly realised that Yuuri was watching him intently with furrowed brows, and probably had been for a while during his reminiscing. 

“Yakov and I were arguing, not fighting.” 

Yuuri continued with the piercing look. 

“He's the closest person I have. He knows and understands me better than anyone else. You should have heard how much he scolded me as a kid,” Viktor winked and launched into memories, embellishing for effect and shamefully dissembling, like a travelling entertainer in front of a tough crowd. Yuuri glanced sideways towards the bathroom. Viktor figured he was on his marks, and once he had finished listening out of politeness he will likely set up a steam room, probably start singing about yellow submarines. That's only if Yuuri was in the mood for it, if not - he will finish showering so fast that the condensation wouldn't even have time to reach the top of the designer’s inspired creation, the floor to ceiling glass wall thanks to which the bathroom had a brilliant view onto the pushed-together beds near the panoramic window. Either way, thinks Viktor, Yuuri will dive under the blankets in a long sleeved shirt and sweatpants, clunk his plastic frames on the bedside cabinet, flick the light switch — as if depriving Viktor of oxygen, and that would be that.

“If I end up causing you any problems, I'll stop you coaching me,” Yuuri said when he had listened to the end.

Viktor got a grip on the bile rising in his throat. He pressed his hand to his mouth for a moment, then leaned his chin onto it.

“I'll be grateful if you can just do my choreography,” continued that stubborn ass, “and then I’ll switch to Yakov as my coach.”

“Is that so… I don't think he'll be too pleased by that.”

Yuuri averted his eyes.

“He wasn’t. But he agreed. I talked to him… that's… only if it gets too hard for you. Viktor, you know this, nothing makes me happier…”

He floundered and fell silent. 

Viktor waited, tapping his fingertips against his lips. Yuuri raised his head and his gaze caught on Viktor's ring. 

The phone in his hand jumped to life; Yuuri gave a delayed blink and accepted the call. 

Viktor perked his ears, but Yuuri's responses lacked interest - _yes, thank you very much, I'll pass it on_. He first talked to Yuuko, and then Nishigori’s voice sounded from the speaker — the triplets must be at the rink first thing in the morning. 

  


He lowered his head onto his elbow, Yuuri's voice ebbing and flowing around him like the shifting tides. A vast, perturbing distance, the cry of seagulls, the air shimmering in a heat haze. Everything had been simpler back in Hasetsu, while here — if he was to press in close — were sleepy breaths, the smell of minty toothpaste and hotel shampoo, a cocoon of blankets and clothes — a desperately anticipated gift, ready to be unwrapped and taken. Viktor would cover his head with his blanket and yet still could see the image of a pale profile against the bare window, a soft mouth relaxed in sleep, black locks on a pillow — right there in arm’s reach. His heart hammered against the warmed sheets, his palms heavy from the closeness of that body, one which he had come to know so thoroughly and yet was entirely inaccessible to him. 

His tormentor was constantly clueless, Yuuri Katsuki being completely unaware of others’ inner dramas and able to go out like a light in any circumstance. He could fall asleep on the train or on a bench in the locker room — one boot unlaced, palm under his cheek, bare foot wedged under his things. It was painful to look at, but Viktor didn't have heart to wake him; then Yuuri would jump up, full of apologies, and try to lace himself up, flying back out onto the ice. Yuuri was passionate and happy, the way a person can be happy when they fanatically dedicate themselves to their life’s work — at least, when he didn't let dark thoughts consume his mind and spend all night punishing himself, and towards morning mumbling his secrets while semi-conscious. Viktor’s self-taught Japanese just barely covered the simple words — gold, love, kiss; more often Viktor heard his own name and froze with wide-open eyes, as if they were his nightmares and not those of his student, calling over and over for his dog with quiet whimpers. The very first time he had thought that Yuuri was ill and needed his help, and almost broke in the door and frightened the poor man to death. 

Those were _happy_ days, hah! Viktor had given himself over to martyrdom and almost gone so far as to go on a drunken bender, thanks to Japanese hospitality and the overall horrific impenetrability of the place. Yuuri had given him his trust and would enter his room at all hours of the day without knocking, leaving behind pencil-scribbled notebook pages — short program, free, the exhibition skate which they spent more time working on than the quad flip. Working at the rink wasn’t enough for him, he regularly swapped his jump order, fought and argued over it, the normally polite, overly-apologetic doormat vanishing into thin air. He only wants you here as a temporary guest, Viktor tried to remind himself, while in his mind’s eye he would pull him in by his bare neck, push him onto his back, fill his mouth in every which way. He had no lack of imagination, but the mildest fantasies dashed themselves to pieces against blessed Love with a capital L. He had been placed on an altar as far back as he could remember, and it could be years of waiting for desecration. Viktor wasn’t accustomed to waiting and wasn’t a fan of it, which is why he tried to divert history’s path, placing Yuuri on the pedestal alongside himself. What could possibly be simpler? Yuuri would then leave to go back to his own room, innocent and having done nothing wrong, pausing at the threshold — slimmer, more mature — and each time his face would light up with a smile which it was impossible to not return in kind. 

Viktor had responded like a professional actor, but something inside would twang painfully more and more often, and Yuuri could clearly tell that something was off, despite point-blank missing the obvious. Yuuri kept drinking him in with his gaze — engraving him into his memory, as if there was no doubt that his airheaded coach would run off any day now while he is too occupied with beating his own ridiculous records for number of jumps per session, each more fiendishly torturous to his feet than the last. On bad days Yuuri would childishly blink away tears and punish himself with additional hours on the ice, head off on runs in all weather and stay silent at home for days on end. That silence set Viktor on edge, making him feel like his soft inner self was being turned inside out, and he had no clue how to respond to this problem. There was barely any time left until the Final in Barcelona, and Viktor pined and suffered. He invented a heartrending version of the exhibition skate and skated each role on one wondrous moonlit night, having dragged Yuuri to the rink by his hand. Not even a pair skate — this was a confession, the plea of a despondent man, what could be clearer? Yuuri had come to from his state of mute awe understanding nothing, merely burning with desire to skate the program with all the lifts included. That same night Viktor had stooped to theft and slept with Yuuri’s glove under his pillow until late morning, when Makkachin, the two-faced renegade, took possession of the loot and returned it to its rightful owner.

The past year he had been blessed by thin walls, neighbouring rooms, tight enclosed spaces; after that magical day in Barcelona he had run out at dawn and couldn’t get enough of the salty winter air. Later he had regretted wasting that time. When he returned from the beach, his sleeping beauty was no longer asleep. The bed was empty; without removing his coat, Viktor turned into the bathroom. Yuuri startled, his unoccupied hand slipping off the sink counter. Scarlet cheeks, eyes like a terrified cat; he cringed while trying to cover himself. Viktor breathed in the other’s sweet scent, noted the folded glasses and ring sitting on the sink — how terribly touching. Yuuri managed, after several attempts, to pull up his pants from where they were bunched at his knees, flustered and dazed due to his still stiff erection; “Want some help?” Viktor enquired casually, turning on the tap. He shrugged off his trenchcoat, rolled the bar of soap in his palms, observing in masochistic delight as the walked-in-on wretch dropped face first onto the bed and slammed a pillow over his head. Viktor unbuttoned himself with one hand and in an identical stance, leaning on the countertop, jerked himself off in front of the glass behind which Yuuri was dying of embarrassment, a hilarious and pitiful sight. 

Unquestionably, he himself was the pitiful one. His presence was unneeded, despite the long-sought equality and all the broken records. The altar turned out to be scrupulously constructed and designed for him alone. Yuuri was prepared to give his hand and his heart, to lay down his life before his skates, but not to grow any closer. Now, and always, and forever more.

You’re in deep now, Vitya, commiserated a loosened Yakov at the banquet and was right as always. There was still time, one last chance to shake off the delusion, to rework everything, before Yuuri relocates to Piter and creates a personal hell for his coach and rival. Viktor would be glad to untangle himself, but it had him by the throat — both back then and now, where there’s one step from the joined beds to the glass bathroom, where he duly rubbed it out with frenzied gusto — and what bloody difference does it make whether there’s a ring on his finger or not at this point? 

  


Viktor squinted with a silent groan and listened in to the surrounding silence.

Glanced up over his elbow.

“Sorry, the conversation stretched a while. Everyone back home says hi to you.”

“Thanks,” Viktor responded, heartfelt. “We’re all happy for you, and here you are so sad. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“I’m fine.”

Relaxed pose, one hand under his head, phone clenched in a flung-out fist like a grenade. Would be nice to know what’s going on in that willful mind right now.

“You didn’t eat or drink all evening…”

“I drank champagne.”

“... didn’t dance. I was holding out for that, you know, so hopefully.”

“I can’t,” Yuuri stated uncertainly.

Viktor exasperatedly rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“I didn’t like the music,” Yuuri threw down his trump card. 

  


He had nothing to beat that. The standing tradition was to honour the winner with a ghastly pot-pourri of local traditional music, followed by the tired refrains of excerpts from the finalists’ program songs and ageless, dependable classics. By the time that something perky and seemingly popular had sounded, Viktor had already understood that there would be no repeat of last year. The coaches typically held themselves aloof, while he took up his rightful place among the general crowd, receiving congratulations with a flawless smile and tossing out meaningless platitudes, all while feeling an acute desire to drink himself into oblivion. The youth did not lose heart, assigning one of their own with some skill to take over the DJ console, but the atmosphere had already been irretrievably ruined. Chris had bailed right at the start with his boyfriend, and Yuuri had closed in on himself and didn’t notice anyone around him, ignoring both his clingy friend from sunny Thailand, and his own distinguished coach. A hairbrained idea was clearly brewing in that reckless head, which promised to equalise the count in their game of “surprise me more than I surprised you”. Viktor was prepared to be surprised, and had yet to get anything more than his retirement looming on the horizon. Oh, joy. 

  


Yuuri was digging in his phone with a thoughtful expression. Viktor mentally took it off him and smashed it against a wall. 

“If I dance for you right now,” Yuuri asked, not moving his finger from his phone screen, “would that make you happy?”

Viktor was silent.

Yuuri looked up at him. 

“Very,” Viktor unfroze and pressed a hand to his heart, quickly sitting up cross-legged, “that would make me very happy, Yuuri.”

[The first bars played out without warning.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nr8hPnZfMU) Yuuri left the phone on the side table and stood up from the bed.

Viktor immediately recognised the decade-old hit, raising his eyebrow in joyful confusion, but under his palm a pendulum moved into motion, his inner metronome marking the beat — a true sign of falling into resonance. Beyonce? He wouldn’t care if it was Nyusha at this point. He could even march to Yellow Submarine, as long as Yuuri didn’t change his mind.

Yuuri did not change anything. Took off his glasses, unhurriedly folded the arms, set them down near the phone and gave himself some time — one second, another. Relaxed pose, head tilting to one shoulder. Eyes lidded, lips apart for a breath.

A sliding step alongside the window, then another. Viktor froze with his hand still pressed against himself in anticipation. Yuuri smoothly turned to face him, continuing to focus in on himself, the way he always did when he was setting himself into the right mindset. His lowered eyelashes shivered, his cheeks flared brighter scarlet, and in a perfectly chosen moment his arms flew skyward. Hands clapped once-twice-thrice over his bent head — and continued beating out the rhythm with unerring precision. The volume was set to max, the beat vibrating viscerally and seconding the scattered claps, as if it was Yuuri setting the tempo and not the other way around. A familiar feeling: his skate was never directed by the chosen music, but rather Yuuri bent it for his purposes, standing at the forefront, everything else — melody, voice, lyrics — serving as nothing more than a backdrop. A setting for this precious gem — which I cut and polished myself, Viktor delightedly affirmed as he caught up the lively rhythm with snaps of his fingers.

Yuuri dropped his arms, as if allowing him to be the accompaniment. He remained in place, but his shoulders turned out, his hips noticeably tensed. His lips soundlessly echoed the bold patter of the lyrics. He was stretching time again — the way Viktor himself would, teasing and promising; threw up his gaze at Viktor, smiled.

Take it away, Viktor commanded in his mind. To stay detached in moments like these would have been like trying to halt the incoming tide for him. The fact that all this was not happening on the ice made no difference; Yuuri clapped once more above his head, and he was off. 

The chosen dance style was definitively masculine, but in the first few seconds there was something feminine slipping through in the smooth short gestures, the manner of shifting from toe to heel, in the curve of his back. He must be imitating someone — most likely, he was a flawless copy of Beyonce’s own choreography. Backing him up with both hands now, Viktor stretched forward, intending to not miss a single moment of this stunning spectacle, and inadvertently allowing a beaming grin to spread over his face. The exquisite movements gained speed, Yuuri spun on his axis like a whirlwind, light as a gust of air, narrow dainty feet barely alighting on the floor, stepping over with his innate grace. There was no tension, only pure improvisation, a flight of inspiration. And yet each movement was confident, developed to impeccable purity like a program skated a thousand times — simply take and use as is for the next season. 

He had almost drifted off into thoughts of that upcoming skating season, when Yuuri, not losing the rhythm for a second, puts his fingers on his belt. He undid the buckle, the top button, and Viktor was forced to watch in complete astonishment as his hardworking student discarded his pants. The striptease was turning out more along the lines of a comedy routine, Yuuri clearly acknowledged that and was openly laughing at himself. His hairstyle had become disheveled, his cheeks still flushed. He tossed the pants onto the foot of the bed and took a step back. Lightly pushing off from the floor, he jumped up onto the windowsill. Viktor stifled a yelp, covering his mouth with a hand. He crossed his arms. Yuuri was looking at him over his shoulder. His socked feet, an indelible and lovely completion of that unforgettable memory, slid along the polished wood until he had sunk into a splendid side split. Viktor silently offered a thumbs up. Yuuri lit up with a smirk, boyishly cheeky, pulled the clip off his tie and tossed it to him, Viktor managing to catch it and freeze: not taking his gaze off Viktor, Yuuri pulled himself back up to standing by his tie, holding on with only one hand. 

Viktor shuddered from the pain in his hand, the tie clip dropped onto the bed. He couldn’t catch his breath. Felt for his jacket, threw it over his knees — a flimsy, but nonetheless hopeful attempt to remain unexposed. Loosened the knot of his tie, moved to his vest and tangled up in the buttons. Doused in the lamplight, like a spotlight on a stage, Yuuri spread his legs and energetically swung his hips, observing him with intense focus. He raised his collar and pulled his tie up over his head, then held his hand in place. Turned the knot onto his temple and left the ends to dangle, boldly tossing his head. Viktor tried to force a smile. Right now laughing was the last thing on his mind. Amazingly similar to how he looked a year ago and yet simultaneously nothing like that at all, Yuuri was undoing his shirt cuffs. Turning each button out of its hole with murderous deliberation. With a nimble, provocative gesture he allowed the shirt to slip off his shoulders. 

Viktor leaned his elbows heavily on his knees, sweeping his gaze over the dark, stiffened nipples, the tight firm abs. Yuuri danced on the spot, displaying himself from every side, and it was impossible to take his eyes off him. He slid his hands down the glass and curved his back, deliberately putting himself on show, twitching and shaking his ass. Tantalising round cheeks, stretched over in black fabric, neat dimples near his waist. His legs almost looked even more toned, his hips narrower. Viktor stared at his student, as if he was seeing him for the first time — and in some sense that’s exactly what it was. No passing wave to your eros from our agape, or any revelation of contrived feelings via music and movement, here; this was sheer lust, completely unrestrained seduction, brazen and vulgar. 

Without pausing in his movement, Yuuri shot him a sly glance through lowered eyelashes. Reached out a hand, enticingly offering his palm and winking with an erupting smile, cheeky and vaguely recognisable. 

Viktor furrowed his brow. Something elusively familiar emerged in the movement of his pelvis, in the flexible extension of his whole body, the confident spread of his shoulders. He unwittingly remembered how over and over he spotted his own style of skating in someone else’s, and each time, year after year, it was one and the same person. Yuuri Katsuki, an average-scoring skater from Japan, unobtrusive except for the obvious love of a fan, amusing and sweet, the way that another’s admiration can be flattering. 

Yuuri slowed his turns and watched him from above with curiosity. Tapped his finger against lips flushed from laughter.

He’s not imitating another dancer, Viktor was struck with the shocking realisation. He’s mocking and acting out _me_.

Viktor seized up, taken unawares by his deduction. Then the meaning of the song reached him, obviously not chosen by accident. He clearly saw himself from an outsider’s point of view, and he couldn’t say that he was particularly pleased with the result. 

Yuuri became serious and jumped off the windowsill, pulled off his tie and threw it down at his feet. Fell onto his arms on the bed, rubbing up it with his whole body, writhing and pressing against the blanket. Without taking his unblinking gaze off his stunned audience, he pulled up one knee and shifted his weight. Viktor caught himself on a movement towards him and clenched his fists. Even now he was scared of ruining everything. Yuuri threw the coat off Viktor’s lap. Grabbed his tie, pulling the ends out of his vest. His grip loosened, his fist slid up-down below the knot twice - a sharp, openly indecent jerk of the wrist; he released his fingers, and Viktor quickly, noiselessly drew in a breath through his mouth. Yuuri blew the fringe from Viktor's eyes with a targeted gust of breath. Splayed himself out on his knees before him and then immediately flipped onto his back, tucking his legs underneath, fell onto his shoulders, threw up his chin. Their gazes met and locked together irreversibly, but the song was still playing, and Yuuri was not about to stop: his widely spread thighs continued their rapid pleading movements, his fingers twisting the blanket above him. It was impossible to imagine a more obscene offering of his body. Viktor had seemingly fallen through the ground together with the bed he was sitting on, hurtling down at breathtaking speed. He was looking at a person overwhelmed with desire, and with a rising chill saw a reflection of himself.

Heated skin, a stiff cock under thin cotton. The muscles of his sweat-slickened torso stood out in sharp relief. Yuuri arched himself above the bed in a single long movement, holding the pose with his head thrown back: eye to eye, a breath’s space between them; his arms came up, embracing the empty space, lying crossways on his bare shoulders in the ending pose of _“Stammi Vicino”_.

The music abruptly ended. Four and a half minutes, he automatically realised, ideal for a free program. Viktor listened to the nervous thumps of his heart and watched without blinking, still stupefied, filled with want so heavy and heated that he was scared to move a muscle. 

Yuuri straightened himself out and turned over with a noisy exhale, leaning on his palms, panting with his hot mouth like a pleased puppy after a playful romp. Yuuri reached towards him at the end like always - not with his hand, but with his whole body, with his pleading joyful face. Viktor tried to respond with the brightest of his false smiles. 

Yuuri beamed with happiness and didn’t move an inch. It wasn’t enough, he wanted a reward, the well-earned praise he would undoubtedly receive — until one day when he no longer needs it. Viktor tried to apply reason; suppose, a kiss on the forehead, chaste and grateful for such a hardworking student, double-edged for his woeful teacher. Not a sign of tenderness — rather, a cruel joke on himself, a parody of a religious rite.

He almost touched his lips to the bridge of Yuuri’s nose, finishing the thought: like on the departed — and imagined, felt with the whole of his painfully clenching core, that sooner or later he would have to do exactly that. Quickly, awkwardly he reeled back.

Yuuri didn’t take his eyes off him, his expression shifting with frightening speed. Pale, with eyes grown dark, he distanced himself, and Viktor’s heart lurched after him.

Completely lost, he offered no resistance; Viktor himself hadn’t come to his senses when he pushed Yuuri down onto his back, ending up above him in his eagerness to steal just a bit more warmth, to prolong the closeness which would be excruciating to remember and impossible to forget. Fists pressed into the pillow, shoulders trembling with agonised impatience, Yuuri lay beneath him like a defeated enemy, his palms up and open. Viktor tossed aside his fringe, leaned over the frozen face, glance snagging on Yuuri’s lips - unsmiling, pressed together tightly. 

  


How many times had he been mistaken, plunging ahead and ending up wide of the mark instead of getting closer? Diligently learning from each successive lesson, soaking in each second of accidental intimacy, when Yuuri hugged him with that impulsive trust that children show when seeking parental comfort. Wooden beneath Viktor’s palms, full of hidden pain and strangled gasps, the despair of one driven into a corner; no words made sense in those moments, Viktor’s presence of mind was barely enough to stand as a worthless statue, to hold Yuuri on that ledge, to not allow him to come unhinged just before the end. Before the Final, Viktor superstitiously corrected himself, and waited until his own breathing evened out, until the shoulders in the circle of his arms loosened, while the fingers clutched tighter at his back. Painfully furrowed brains under childlike bangs, a heavy adult gaze. Viktor looked at this drained person, almost at the point of a nervous breakdown - nothing notable, unremarkable, just like hundreds, millions of others. And every time with mindblowing clarity he saw the loveliest, most wonderful thing that could ever exist on the Earth.

  


He breathed deeply and found the strength to look into Yuuri’s eyes. 

Pale, unnaturally calm, Yuuri didn’t stir, but his lips twitched, his cheeks reddened, and his eyes warmed with a smile. Without averting his straight, clear gaze, he reached over to the lamp and switched off the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Sheremetyevo is, of course, one of the Moscow airports.  
> Shirematyevo, on the other hand, sounds kinda like the words "shire mat' yevo" which means "[pull] his mother wider [apart]". No wonder Viktor snorted.
> 
>  
> 
> Say hi to me on [tumblr!](https://tasty-pile-of-glitter.tumblr.com/)


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